Let’s talk about all the reasons I sat in a chair today in a very clean medical-type office and let a woman inject many many vials of things into my face.

What in the fucking world could possibly have made it okay in my head to to that?

Why am I not enough when I look at myself?

Why can’t I allow myself to age gracefully?

Why do I not see my humor and heart as enough beauty to get me by in life?

What went wrong?

Oh, man. I have no idea! It’s not like I was ever this beauty who could begin wars or talk a bartender into free drinks. Wait, that’s not true. I got a lot of free drinks. And I talked myself out of two tickets when I was younger. One of them, when I was younger and braless. And I did have a “way” about me. Sex appeal, I guess. But I was no great beauty. And nothing I ever got that meant anything was because of my attractiveness.

I’ve never gotten an acting job as the lead girl or the love interest. All of my work has been character work, and rarely even attractive.

My husband fell in love with me because of my ability to laugh at myself, my utter lack of grace, and my honesty. And maybe my boobs a little.

None of my friends saw me and thought, “I must befriend that GORGEOUS girl so some of her BEAUTY can rub off on me.

I’ve never been that girl.

And yet I find myself looking in the mirror and not liking what’s happening. I don’t like those two lines between my eyebrows that make me look concerned all the time. I don’t like the drooping of my face, the loss of youthfulness, the shit that’s going on with my NECK that is beyond reason and apparently unfixable.

But why can’t I look at all of that and laugh it off? Why can’t I see it as the natural progression of life and allow it to free myself up to be ME? WHY do I HAVE to stay young and attractive? What does that get me? I can’t answer that. I really can’t.

And yet I sat there today and asked for Dysport in my forehead, got filler in those pesky anger lines, and then let myself be talked into more volume in my face. Because you can’t look “refreshed” when your face isn’t full. Of poison.

So now I’m having all these fears.

What if I just put a bunch of shit in my face and it makes my perfectly HEALTHY face… NOT healthy. I’ll never forgive myself.

What if it all works and I still feel unattractive? What then?

What if it works and I love it and I never stop filling my face with poison?

I could have had 10 great therapy sessions with the money I spent on those injections. Maybe that’s what I should be doing instead. Maybe I should be finding out why I don’t think I’m good enough just the way I am.

Because I AM! I am good enough!

Ouch. That outburst hurt. My face feels like someone punched me with needles over and over again. Oh, wait. They did.

I wanted to write this because I just felt like it might be good for me to put it out there that I did this thing. And now that you know, I can continue to be honest about it with you. I might tell you in two weeks that it’s the best decision for me. I might tell you I won’t ever do it again or that I’ve decided to cut my hair, stop wearing makeup, and start enjoying my aging process. I don’t know how I’ll feel about it tomorrow or in a month.

But right now I’m a bit mad at myself. And I also want to hug myself and ask me why It matters if I have wrinkles or not. Because I really do know that it’s not my face or my thighs or my ass that makes me who I am. I just don’t ever believe that long enough to LIVE that way.

I want to change the script. I really do. But right now I’ve got a face full of stuff that wasn’t in there before, and it’s continuing the script I was already writing. I’ll let you know what happens after the swelling goes down.

I went back to my high school last week to speak to the kids in Play Production. Sixth period. Just like when I went there. It was a bizarre day, driving back through the old ‘hood. It’s a mere 10 miles from my house, but it feels like a whole other world. It feels like my childhood. (With a few added Taco Bells and gas stations.) Driving down the road that lead to the school, I was looking at all the parked cars and thinking, “I used to park there. Then I’d walk the 1/6th of a mile to the school’s front doors, put my shit in my locker and start my day.”

I hated going to school. It makes me worry for my son because if he’s anything like me OR his father, he’s got a long road ahead of him, paved with classes he hates, awkward social behaviors, and a brain full of angry sarcasm just dying to get out.

The D Building was always my haven. I hated everything a little less when I was on that side of the campus. “D” stood for “Drama”, and there was a lot of it. Not just on stage. Imagine an episode of Glee, only there’s no cute cheerleaders. It was just us, the Drama Dorks; our hearts full of creativity and our pants full of hormones.

Walking through the drama room’s door, (now renamed for the woman who was my drama teacher), I laughed. Holy Cow, it was weird to be in that room! And yet, I truly felt like I could just sit down in one of those chairs, be a part of the class, and no one would know I was almost 40 because I could still totally get away with being 17. Right? I mean it really felt like that. I spent a few minutes chatting with the teacher, who is a fantastic girl who graduated the year before me, and was a friend and fellow performer. The fact that she’s the TEACHER now, and has been for TEN YEARS is mind boggling. She said she also feels like she could go right back to that time and place… 22 years ago.

The kids came filing in, each of them looking like an exact replica of someone I was in class with all those years ago. The prototype hasn’t changed. You can see the kid in every one of them., as well as the budding adult. They are at an age where they are brimming with ideas and feelings… Mostly pain and confusion, I’d assume. I wanted to grab every one of them and say, “BE CREATIVE NOW! THIS IS THE TIME WHEN ALL OF YOUR FEELINGS ARE RIGHT AT THE SURFACE! YOU’LL NEVER BE SO IN TOUCH WITH THAT BULLSHIT AND DRAMA AS YOU ARE NOW. SO USE IT!” I said something to that end, but not exactly that.

I also told them how horrible this business is and how they have to be prepared to trudge through endless shit to find one day of glory. But I also told them if they really want it, they can do it. And if they don’t really want it, to find another career. I made them laugh, they made me laugh. I did a couple characters from the Shakespeare monologue I had done as a senior which won me first place at a festival. They understood the importance of that day to me, because they go to the same festivals. I spoke to a few of them after class. Good kids.

I left and decided to drive to the house I grew up in. I turned on my radio and an Adam Ant song blared out of the speakers. Perfect. It felt like the 80’s. I opened my sunroof, because when I was a teenager I never drove with it closed. As I drove past all of the familiar houses, I admired how well most of them are being taken care of. I remembered baby sitting in one of the houses and skating past others. I drove up the hill to my house, made a u-turn and pulled up in front of it.

It isn’t being as well taken care of as some of the other homes, and there’s a for sale sign out front. I called the number to see how much it’s going for, but the code I punched in didn’t work. And… There was the driveway I drove up thousands of times, where I took prom pictures, played basketball, hid from my brother, and cried when my first boyfriend and I broke up. There was the front door I walked through over and over, day after day. The door my mom and dad came through when they got home from work. The door that lead into the home I lived in for all of my youth.

I actually visited it a few years back, and the owner let me look around. Most of it was unchanged, but the kitchen wall had been knocked down and an island put in. I saw the room my parents didn’t furnish until Bob and I both graduated from high school, so we could have a rehearsal space. I saw my room, my brother’s, my parents’. I saw the bathrooms, the den. So many memories.

And here I was again, staring at the bay windows my dad designed and the vines that used to be beautiful, bloomingbougainvillea. It was as if the house represented my youth: Still there, but older. I waited for the tears, but none came. I gave it one last look and drove home.

It was an interesting day, to say the least. To visit familiar places, this time as this me. So much has changed, but I am still that girl that lived in that house and went to that school. I’m the girl that grew up to become a wife, a mom, a working actor (sometimes). I’m the girl who roller-skated down the hill behind that house, who walked to the strip mall to buy ice cream, who dreamt of who I would be.

I miss that girl sometimes. But I got a life much better than she ever allowed herself to dream of. It was a good visit. But I like living here. Now.

My birthday is looming. I’m going to be 39 on Tuesday, November 23rd. It’s my last year before 40. When the fuck did I become an adult? Seriously. I’m not kidding. How did this happen? I have a kid. I’ve been married 10 and a half years. I pay bills and own a house and bag boys call me ma’am.

I remember my dad saying to me many years ago that in his head, he stopped aging at 26. He said he always felt 26 and never thought he was a day older, until he looked in the mirror. I can totally relate to that. And, I don’t know if it’s the power of suggestion, but 26 is the age I feel, too. I’m happier now than I have ever been in my life. I feel secure, proud, self-aware, and fulfilled. But I just don’t understand how I’m almost 39. I know it’s “just a number” and all, but it’s a number that represents the fact that I’m getting old, um… older.

So, this upcoming birthday is making me think of things I miss from my younger days. I really don’t look back that much, because of how good I feel about my life now. But I thought it might be fun to remember things I used to do, that I might do again someday, like when Garrett is in his 20’s.

*In my mid-twenties I was in a morning bowling league with my mom, my best friend (at the time), and her mom. My average was 147, but I often bowled in the 170’s. I enjoyed watching the women bowl, most were in their 50’s or so. And some were drunk by 9:00 AM.

*In my early twenties, I used to wait tables until 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning, then go out for Grand Slams and coffee and stay up until after 4:00AM and sleep until noon.

*When Russ and I first moved in together, we would walk to Jerry’s Famous Deli for late-night meals a couple times a week. I’d eat a chocolate chip danish from there almost every night. If I did that now, I’d be three sizes bigger.

*Russ and I would spontaneously go to Vegas for a few days at least four times a year. One of us would say, “Hey! You wanna go to Vegas tonight?” And the other would say, “Uh, Yeah. Do we have anything going on in the next few days?” Then we’d realize we didn’t. I’d get on line and look for a deal, we’d nap and at 2:00AM, we’d drive to Vegas. We’d get there around 6:00, have breakfast, get our room , nap and gamble, eat and play for a couple days. Good times.

*I used to watch TV for hours on end. Oh, wait. That was just a few years ago. I remember it fondly.

*I used to go to movies. Russ and I would go to a theater, get popcorn and sodas, and watch a movie. I’ve gone to three in the last two years. Garrett doesn’t like movies in theaters yet. Soon. Very soon.

*I used to go out “drinking”. My friends and I would sit at a bar, order a drink, and wait for guys to buy us more drinks. Then we’d eat and talk and maybe dance. Now I drink much, much less. And mostly at home.

*I would go to the beach and get tan. Really tan. I’d put on a freaking bikini and lay out in the sun for hours, with a boom box, some junk food and SPF 4 or baby oil. Those were the days when we didn’t know how bad that was for you. I kind of wish we’d never found that out.

*Parties! I was always going to, or hosting a party. They were happening all the time! Even weeknights! Booze, chips, dip, loud music, making out… Constantly.

*I was on stage all the time. I was always in a show, especially during the summers. I’d write and perform with a group of friends in a theater we’d rent and almost always sell out. I was so creatively driven back then.

Now that I’ve typed all that, I’m feeling even better about NOW. I like this time of my life a lot better. But I did love the times before. It’s nice to know that, through each phase, I’ve been happy. I’m blessed that way. And I’m sure when G is older, Russ and I will go back to doing some of those late nights and spontaneous Vegas trips. But I am so grateful for what we do and where we are now. And I certainly don’t want to rush to the next phase. Okay, 39. Bring it. I’m ready for a beautiful year.